The Fault in Our Scars
by Nerwen Aldarion
Summary: Post Blue Bird: Jane and Lisbon learn more about one another by mapping out their scars, some run deeper than others and some bring up stories they don't want to remember. Dedicated to Donnamour for the idea.


Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N: You can all blame Donnamour for this one. I was just on twitter minding my own business, she posed a question about Jane from Red Brick and Ivy and we started chatting about Jane at the mental hospital. She was the one that suggested the title The Fault in Our Scars as a title, probably as a joke but since I just read the book and saw the movie (today! Go see it!) and cried my eyes out...well I had to do it.

So this is it, a question many have wondered but few have chosen to ask. This is my answer.

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The Fault in Our Scars

After twelve years Lisbon knew only one thing about Patrick Jane: that she would never truly figure him out and that she would never stop trying. Every time she thought she turned a corner with him, he found new ways to surprise, added another layer to the enigma that was the man she'd given her life over to. And the one time she did finally attempt to let it go and move on from him, he surprised her once again by giving her the one reason she'd needed to stay.

She'd been so afraid that Patrick Jane was forever scarred, far too broken to ever be fixed, to ever love again. But she'd been wrong. Some scars cut deep but could be knit together again with time.

So she was in the one place she'd hoped but had never believed she would be, lying in her bed wrapped up in his arms. She'd just finished learning another thing about him: an ex-psychic truly is the best lover. He'd mapped every part of her body with his sensual fingers and she was happy to say that he seemed to be rather pleased too, she might not be a psychic but she knew how to make him lose his control too.

Jane ran his fingertips over her skin, the length of her collarbone and up to her shoulder, only pausing when he touched the roughened skin that was the legacy of being shot. He leaned over to look at it more closely for a moment, still tracing it. Lisbon rolled her eyes, "It doesn't hurt anymore, or do you just find ugly scars fascinating."

"My dear, not a single part of you is ugly, including this," Jane corrected her, "this scar is not an imperfection but merely a reminder of how you are a badass cop that stood up against injustice."

Lisbon couldn't help but laugh a little. "You mean caught off guard by one of Red John's thugs."

"I meant what I said," he told her, smiling into her eyes before giving her a soft kiss on her lips. Then his hand dipped lower to find the long white scar on the top of her arm. "How did this happen?"

She shrugged. "Idiot with a knife my first year on the job, I was caught in a crowd and he decided to take a swipe. He got a cuff to the side of the head with my gun in exchange and a ten by ten cell for several years."

"Like I said, you are a badass cop."

Lisbon had to smile now at how he was acting, it was flattering and sweet that he complimented her so much. Still she didn't expect him to duck under the sheet and start perusing her naked body. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Finding more evidence."

She started giggling as his hands gently traced over her skin, causing goose bumps and tickling her a bit. "What about this one?" Jane asked, he was somewhere around her navel.

"Which one?" She was honestly confused over what he was talking about.

"This small round one right by your belly button."

"You know very well what a chicken pox scar looks like you jerk."

She felt his smile against her skin as he leaned down to kiss the scar, his beard tickling her a little while also taking her breath away. He didn't linger long, instead making his way down her body, a big white lump underneath the sheet, as he found her legs. "What about this one?" He traced a puckered part of her knee.

"Bike accident when I was ten."

"And this one?" He asked, finding the jagged scar on her calf, the one that vaguely resembled the Nike symbol.

She bit her lip then, tampering down what pain she could. "Uhh…broken beer bottle…my dad threw it at me one night."

That answer made Jane pause for a long moment, and then he came crawling back from under the sheet so she could see his eyes and rumpled blonde hair again. "I hate that people have caused you pain," he told her honestly, "but I love these scars…they created you."

Lisbon smiled softly and shook her head. "You are being far to sweet, you must have something up your sleeve."

Jane gave her a wicked look; he braced his hands on each side of her head so he was hovering on top of her in a _very_ promising position. "I'm not wearing any sleeves right now." He kissed her, a wet sensual one that sparked things inside of her just enough to warm her blood a little. "Actually, I'm not wearing _anything_."

"Mmm I noticed," she purred, tempted to progress things but ultimately didn't want to end this little talk either. So she pulled away with a satisfied smirk. "So, what about you?"

"What about me?" Jane asked, still trying to kiss her and keep amping up the passion.

But she pulled away again. "What created you then?"

"Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails."

She wacked him on the shoulder for that response. "I'm serious!"

Jane groaned, upset that his sex plans were being thwarted, and instead he rolled onto his back. "Unfortunately, _I_ am not a bad ass cop."

"No, you're just a con artist the worked the Carnie circuit, became a psychic and pissed off a thousand people along the way."

Jane smiled. "Part of being a good psychic is knowing when to get away before they catch you."

She hit him again. "Stop being so ridiculous."

He laughed and crooked his finger towards her like Patrick Swayze. "I have one." She got excited now; the great mysterious Patrick Jane was baring his soul to her. He lowered the sheet to reveal his taut stomach she'd eyed a few times over the years and finally had to himself. There on the right side was a long linear scar.

"What happened?" she asked, running her fingers over it.

"A night of excruciating pain and loss of a body part."

"From what?"

"Appendicitis."

Lisbon stared at it for a moment before slapping it, hard. "Ow!" Jane howled. "What was that for?"

"I didn't mean something like that!"

"You wanted a story about a scar," Jane pointed out.

"Not a wimpy one."

"What about your chicken pox?"

She hit him again and he was laughing now. "I hate to disappoint you, Teresa. But as many times as I have been shot at, I've never actually been shot."

"There's still time and my gun is in my car." He laughed again, framing her face with both of his hands to pull her in for a soul-searing kiss. But she noticed something then, a thin white scar at the base of his left wrist, diagonal and reaching out towards him. Lisbon caught his hand, certain she'd trapped him now. "What about this?" She asked, holding it up for him to see. She was feeling pretty smug, until she saw his eyes.

He looked sad and ashamed, that expression of one who was keeping something buried and was now caught. "It's nothing," Jane told her, but it was a pathetic attempt to brush it off.

She dropped his hand to stare at him, all seriousness now. "Patrick…what happened?"

Jane looked away, he was deep in thought, either figuring out a way to get out of this conversation or trying to decide if he should tell her or not. Finally he sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "I was at _the_ hospital."

She knew immediately which one he was talking about. The mental hospital where he'd met Dr. Sophie Miller and managed to pull out of his despair enough to keep on living. "Oh," she managed to say, just like when he first told her about his stay.

He still didn't look at her. "I'm a master at taking things, I managed to get razor blade and I…I cut my wrist." He said it simply, as if reciting a script. "I tried to kill myself."

Lisbon didn't move, she could barely breathe. She'd wondered, questioned but never truly allowed herself to believe that he had tried to take his own life. It made sense and it shouldn't have been surprising but it was. Probably because she couldn't imagine a world without him in it.

"I didn't get to cut the other wrist," Jane continued. "I saw the blood and thought about it, the blood. How red it was, how it was just a simple liquid that filled us and kept us alive. How odd it is that is smells like pennies. It reminded me of the night I found my family, that blood on the wall. So instead of cutting my other wrist, I took the time to remake Red John's mark. A poor patchwork attempt but I still did it."

He sighed heavily. "Then an orderly caught me, they patched me up, kept me from bleeding out and dying. But they didn't cover up that face, it gave me something to stare at. A reminder of who was out there, who had killed them…and then I thought about what if it was _his_ blood." He finally met her eyes. "And thus the seeds of revenge were sown."

Jane didn't speak for a while and looked away again. Lisbon lay down again, resting her chin on his chest but kept on staring at him. Then she softly kissed his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I owed it to them to stay alive," Jane said woodenly.

She nodded. "You had things to live for."

Jane finally turned his head to meet her eyes. He reached up to run his fingertips over her cheek, ending at her chin. "Yes I do." He pulled her closer to him. "I don't regret living," Jane promised her, "not since the day I met you and every day since."

Lisbon smiled now and kissed him then. She grabbed his left hand and pressed her lips to his scar and maintained eye contact. "I don't regret these scars," she said, "because they created you…and they led you to me." She sat up now, still holding his hand. "But you missed some scars of mine, the best and the worst ones." She pressed his hand over her heart. "You scarred me here, cut me deep and I'll never regret all of that pain…because it got us here."

Jane kept his hand over her heart, feeling that beat beneath his palm. He looked into her eyes and flicked her hair away from her face. "Well then, we have something in common." He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. "We have a matching set."

Lisbon shook her head, amused. "I guess not all of your scars are wimpy."

He laughed. "No, the worst scars aren't skin deep, they hurt the most." Jane grinned now. "But they are the best ones."

She hovered over his lips, feeling his heart racing beneath her hand. "I agree," she whispered back. Then they kissed again, for a very long time. Letting their hands explore each other all over again, feeling skin and warmth…and scars.

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A/N: I've always thought that there was a suicide attempt in Jane's past after Red John killed his family, I always thought he cut himself in the hospital to make that bloody face on the wall...but I never wondered about the scars until today. Thank you Donna for the idea, this was quite amazing to write.


End file.
